03.30.06
Look Ma, I’m Dancin’
Let me first make this disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been a dancer. And when I say I’m not a dancer, what I mean is, I lack even the most basic of coordination skills. If there is a coffee table within a 12 mile radius of my legs, my knee will find the corner like a magnet. When walking on smooth linoleum, there’s a 50/50 chance that I will trip on my own feet. So when I do dance, it’s not unlike watching someone have a seizure.
And yet, I really have developed a new love for dance, or should I say movement in general. As an actor, I love reducing everything in my body to a singular and specific gesture. To marshall all of the emotion and intent in your very person and telegraph it from one part or all of your body simply fascinates me. To boot, I’m such a musical person that to physically express what music does to me internally is… well, quite a thrill.
I have spent the last 4 weeks working on a production with a LOT of dance. It’s been broadening for me to move my brain down into my body to try and figure out what I want these dances to communicate. I confess that I am a very cerebral actor, and it’s only been in the last five or six years that I’ve even let my body really participate. So this is the pinnacle for me – telling a story with only the body, yet emotionally responding to the music and relationship to other performers as it plays out physically. In short, I have learned. A lot.
So I really should say thank you to the fabulous six actors who have showed up everyday to work with me and move their bodies every which way. And the lion’s share of my gratitude would easily go to the choreographer. She is head and shoulders my favorite dancer to watch move, and when she puts steps together to create a continual thought, feeling or story, it’s absolute magic.
I love my job.
03.29.06
Clearing the Cobwebs
Okay, so it’s been quite some time since I’ve posted. And I really don’t have anything to say – I just felt that I should post SOMETHING so that my readers (you handful know who you are) will quit gritching at me for neglecting my blog.
My show is about to open, and I’ve been knee-deep in all the minutia that often accompanies a live theater production. It’s been a fantastic experience and one I’d repeat in a heartbeat. Now if I only had more time for my kids…
Actually, the pixies are really enjoying the production process. Squidge has taken to calling herself Dorothy (we’re doing “The Wizard of Oz”) and running like a banshee around our house searching for Toto (whom she, oddly, never seems to find). This has also resulted in her removing one shoe at various points during the day. When pressed as to the whereabouts of the shoe (say, when we’re trying to gear up to run errands), she responds vaguely with, “The witch took my shoe! I’ve got to pour water on her!” and then runs away to find Toto again.
Cheeksie on the other hand really loves listening to the music. The production is a dance piece so I’ve had the pleasure of choosing all sorts of music for the characters’ dances. I’m such a music person that this task has been my favorite part of the production. And my oldest can’t get enough – which I suppose for me is the biggest endorsement of all time of my musical selections.
I’ll end with this little anecdote, especially for my Poppy: Two nights ago, Squidge, the youngest and by definition, the most overlooked at the dinner table, was attempting to tell a story. Unable to rally everyone and grab their attention, she hollered out: “Attention everyone – button your lip!!” Her father and I were stunned. Michael was the first to recover from his stupor and admonished her in a very firm tone. “Emmy, that is very disrespectful!! You need to speak politely in this house!” To which Emily promptly replied: “Sorry… everyone button your lip please!
Here’s our clan at Squidge’s third birthday – quite a bash!!
To Err Is Human…
Life is not perfection, and many are the mistakes we repeatedly make. Like pushing the door as hard as we can before noticing “Pull” clearly marked on the handle. Like thinking you can successfully answer the question, “Does this make me look fat?” Or, perhaps the most egregious and regretful, not having the wipee ready for that weight altering poop.
My youngest daughter is not yet potty-trained – for several reasons, chief among them that I am not yet up for The Great Siege. Potty training is easily the most punishing season for any mother or father. After taking your little one to sit on the toilet every half hour for even one day, speaking in strained and patient tones as if the very sound of your voice will coax the urine out, offering everything but a day spa package as reward for a successful bathroom trip, and simply saying the word “poopy” for the thousandth time, you really will find yourself on the outskirts of crazytown.
Needless to say, Squidge sports pull ups.
Inevitably, said pull ups will need to be changed. A wet pull up is fairly effortless and requires the merest distraction. A poopy pull up, on the other hand, has its own physical laws. The very idea of soiled pants seems to illicit a new and frenetic level of activity in my little one. Not unlike a chimp after a splurge at Starbucks. To have even the slightest suggestion of success, measures must be taken, steps must be followed, and even the seemingly least significant mistake will come back to bite you in your own ass.
First you must remove the outer garment. This must be done without shifting the position of the pull up. A fairly easy first step, but don’t be fooled. These are dark and dangerous waters. Once the shorts, leggings, skirt, whatever is successfully out of the picture, you have now come face to face with your nemesis. Staring up at you, the pull up seems to actually smirk – those three Disney princesses actually taunt you with their Disney-fied grins. You don’t have a prayer of coming out of this one unscathed. But at this point, all you can do is go forward, poopy be damned.
At this point, and this is critical, you MUST HAVE THE WIPEE READY. Herein lies the fatal mistake. Once the pull up is opened, exposing mankind to a new level of vile, arms and legs begin to wave. The torso twists. You’ve got to secure the poopy pull up AND lock down the thrashing limbs. At this point, if you’ve not yet removed the wipee from the box, your only prayer is to quickly grow a third arm. Best of luck to you.
Now as many times as I’ve changed this child, you’d think I’d have this little routine down cold. But not today. Today was a dark day in the annals (no pun intended there!) of the Foster household. As Emmy attempted to log roll out of the pull up and onto her clean bedding, there I was. Trapped. Like a rat on the U.S.S. Hopeless. One arm having gathered her limbs into a squirming half nelson, the other desperately trying to save the bedding, the only innocent participant, from assault with poopy. And there sat the unopened wipee box, shaking its head in shame at me.
